"I'm Stepan.

Of course!" "How you sing! Ah!" Foma exclaimed in astonishment, uneasily shifting from foot to foot.
"Eh, your Honour!" sighed the peasant and added softly and convincingly: "Sorrow can compel an ox to sing like a nightingale.

And what makes the lady sing like this, only God knows.

And she sings, with all her veins--that is to say, so you might just lie down and die with sorrow! Well, that's a lady." "That was sung very well!" said Ookhtishchev in a drunken voice.
"No, the devil knows what this is!" Zvantzev suddenly shouted, almost crying, irritated as he jumped up from the table.

"I've come out here for a good time.